


A Fleeting Thought

by lenasorensen



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: M/M, a bit messy, mentioned sex, weird plot twist, youngfeel, youngpil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenasorensen/pseuds/lenasorensen
Summary: Wonpil fell in love with a man he met in another dimension of reality. Perhaps a parallel universe, perhaps even a dream; there is no way to tell. Not until he finds out who Younghyun really is.





	A Fleeting Thought

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be in two parts, but i wanted to post this before writing the second part for some sort of pressure lol
> 
> i do not own day6
> 
> i hope you enjoy !

* * *

__

 

_ Seoul, December 2018 _

 

Had time always flown by so rapidly?

 

That was the fleeting thought in Wonpil’s throbbing head as he raised from his numbing slumber and eased into a state of utter confusion. Just yesterday, he had seen the faces of Mr. Beddy and some of his friends quietly sitting in their places as stuffed animals, had felt the warm lips of his mother grazing against his closing lids, small feet wound up together in an attempt to flee from the cold grind of December. And he was pretty sure this wasn’t some sort of sick metaphor he’d whimmed as he sat up in a bed he could hardly recognize, only from blurry flashes between the strips of the ramified memories suddenly seething behind his lids. He  _ had  _ really been no more than six years old just the day before, had been sipping on his fruit milk just the morning before. 

 

And he refused to believe that those very adult-shaped legs were strapped to his body. 

 

Perhaps a six-year-old might have reacted the same way, but Wonpil sprung from his bed and ran to his bathroom, walked on paths his feet were accustomed to but seemingly not his mind. 

 

He took in the look of himself in the clear mirror, a mirror so clean he instantly knew it couldn’t be anyone else’s but his. Caught in a crescent of horror, Wonpil brought both his hands that had been so tiny the day before to the soft features of his face. They were practically the same, only their ripening were painstakingly distinguishable: the crease around his eyes, the plump of his cheeks all drained and now sharpened into a chiseled jaw, some recognizable facial hair, an  _ adam’s apple _ . They were all admirable features Wonpil had once dreamed of growing into, but now that it was displayed in front of him in the form of a dreadful dismay, Wonpil had second thoughts about the whole wishful thinking thing. 

 

Strangely, when he padded into the living room and found bills,  _ those bills  _ that have grown white roots in his parents’ hair, he found that the numbers weren’t too complicated to count like Mrs. Han had always tried teaching him. Wonpil didn’t know where he had acquired all of this knowledge, but he couldn’t say he was entirely grateful for it. 

 

However, a letter had caught his blinking attention. It was probably an advertisement of some sort, visibly old from where the edges of the paper were crunched and chipped, worn off with time. As Wonpil examined it closely, quite amazed that he could read so many words, he felt a pang of deja-vu seep into his mind and replacing the confusion in his head.

 

This was the bar he’d been dying to go for a while now. It had opened earlier this year, around a corner of Seoul--

 

Earlier this year?

 

Wonpil flipped the poster to properly dissect its contents with a frown tugging on his brows, fumbled with the envelope between his trembling fingers. Soon, his eyes posed on an assertion he wasn’t sure he wanted to be confirmed.

 

Kim Wonpil, 13 December 2018. 

 

Indeed, he was in Kim Wonpil’s body, and he wasn’t living in 2004, in his child form. 

 

Wherever he was, perhaps it was too daunting to know, too weighty to process when he had half a mind of a six-year-old. The predicament, too delicate for him to prod at without somehow losing his mind, had him tangled in directions he couldn’t even begin to explain.

 

But this strange sense of awareness and understanding, this feeling of having paved this path a million times before, sporadic, numbing instants of bristling memories, this impression of deja-vu running in loops were clogging in his mind, reminding him that indeed, 14 years of his life had really been lived, had really existed somewhere in the swells of time. 

 

So he did what Kim Wonpil would do at 20 years old. He took a nap and tried to wake up in his home, maybe as his younger self, but none of his wish had been granted. Half of himself was scared, folding back into himself in fear, while another side was carrying on adjusting to reality as Kim Wonpil did each mornings. 

 

It was scary, but why was it so familiar…?

  
  
  
  
  


Later into the week saw Wonpil sitting on a stool and facing the broad bar stretching before him, twirling the glass in his nimble fingers and absently looking into the brownish liquid rushing in spirals. Had he been hypnotized? Perhaps this was all a dream, an abhorrently difficult dream to wake up from, but then again, the touch of water and the nipping coldness of December were very much alive and tactile, not simply scattered blurs Wonpil could just run his fingers through. 

 

He had obsessed over this tangible feeling for a week now, confusion brewing into shock into numbness each mornings he woke up in this body that seemed almost awry to him. Why did it all feel so real? 

 

“Hey.” 

 

Wonpil snapped out from his thoughts and appraised the person standing right before him with tired and unfocused eyes. Wonpil wasn’t very sober, he knew that for a fact, but the feeling wasn’t uncanny. If anything, it felt like something his body really enjoyed, and had been for quite some time now. Perhaps a foul habit established since the past two years. 

 

“Hey?” He replied, narrowing his eyes. The adult gears carefully processed in his mind: the man addressing him was handsome, looked like he came from another country, and there was a western accent etched into his voice. Maybe Wonpil should tip more towards the prudent side around him. 

 

“Mind if I sit here?” The guy pointed a decisive finger to the stool nearby, and ultimately schooled an expression that wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Wonpil shrugged indifferently. His korean sounded unpracticed, but Wonpil didn’t know what to expect.

 

“It was empty before,” he sighed, taking another sip of his drink. 

 

They made small talk, mostly repeating things on Wonpil’s end since the music was a touch too loud for conversations and the guy was probably slow on korean, as he had explained to Wonpil that he was still in the course of learning it. Overall, he had that subtle charm that took a precise second look to really notice it, he knew how to use his eloquence in what Wonpil deducted was english and handled his body language quite well. The hot bartender were giving them looks, but Wonpil had only chalked it up to ridiculous contempt held on people like him. He had only begun to broaden his interest for his friend a mile more when the guy dropped a coin on the floor.

 

“Agh, I’m sorry, I--”

 

“No it’s okay, I’ll get it,” Wonpil offered with a smile, earning himself one in return. If anything, the act was a complete excuse for him to hide his blush. When he straightened up, the guy seemed to have forgotten all about the coin and held his own glass in his hand, gesturing for Wonpil to clink with him. 

 

“Oh, uh--” he awkwardly placed the coin on the table and grabbed his own glass. “Cheers,” he chirped happily, but before the rim of his glass could touch his lips, a hand harshly stopped him.

 

“Don’t drink that,” Wonpil felt rather than saw the bartender grip at his wrist with a glare that was nothing short of a murder, and Wonpil wound up tearing his wrist from the bouncer’s firm hold. Aside from the scarlet Wonpil felt burning in his cheeks at how handsomely unreal his intruder was, he opened in mouth to protest when the other sharply interrupted him. “He drugged it.”

 

Immediately, Wonpil dropped the glass on the floor like it was set on fire and stood up from his stool. The foreigner was visibly grounding his jaw together, a deplorable excuse about to elude his lips, but Wonpil had better things to do. 

 

“Why you sick bastard,” he managed to utter before he made his way to hide in the toilets without a single glance backwards. 

 

Perhaps it was the aftermath in the wake of his disorientation, perhaps it had been his six-year-old self emerging from deep within himself, climbing the layers of time and the years and the different stages of Wonpil, but he bawled his eyes out behind the dirty stall of the restrooms. Perhaps the whole ordeal was too brimful with sourceless threats and surely a good amount of turbulence, but everything was too heavy to soak in, too scary to endure alone. There was nobody to whom Wonpil could unwind, nobody he veritably knew with a deeper sense of familiarity, nobody he could rely on. It was all half novelty, half nothing at all, and not a single face he knew had shown up since he turned into this… adult with burgeoning responsibilities. Surely… for the lingering six-year-old that was folded away in his conscience, this was too brutal to confront. 

 

He didn’t know how much time he spent in there, simply mulling over daunting questions and weaving around for an answer, but by the time he came out, only the same bartender was left to his own device, cleaning the glasses behind the counter, composing an air of admirable dignity. Out of all the things Wonpil could be doing other than idly standing there, rooted on the spot and unable to do anything else other than stare at the guy’s handsome profile, he could only embarrass himself, the only thing he’d been always successful in.

 

“We closed up a while ago, y’know,” he heard him say, but there was no menacing urgency edged into his voice. His facial expression was hard and levelled, but upon noticing Wonpil’s swollen face, softness bled into his face. He sighed resignedly, gestured for Wonpil to come closer.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ll be leaving… I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said, but took a seat anyways. 

 

“No, you can stay.” Wonpil pursed his lips and averted the guy’s intense stare. “I’m Kang Younghyun. It’s nice to meet you.” He pulled his lips into a smile, awfully contagious and wielding every meaning of beautiful, and held out a hand for Wonpil to shake.

 

“Wonpil. I mean uh- I’m Kim Wonpil. It’s nice to meet you too.” He folded his cold hands around Younghyun’s, unable to contain a very broad smile and the heat in his cheeks. “Oh uh… thank you so much for warning me, back there… I really wasn’t being careful…” Wonpil thanked with elegant ease, momentarily forgetting how difficult it had been to solely talk as a child. It felt like years of experience had just been infused in his mind on a dime. 

 

“Oh, it’s nothing really. Happens a lot around here. Not the best neighborhood around, if you ask me.” Younghyun continued wiping the glasses clean as if it wasn’t 4 in the morning (as the clock strapped to the wall read). “You new around here? You look lost.”

 

“No, it’s just…” Wonpil trailed off uncomfortably, wiping at the remaining tears staining his eyes. He hoped Younghyun hadn’t noticed. “Some crazy things happened. I’m not in my best shape these times.” 

 

“I understand. I’m guessing that’s why you came to get a drink?” Younghyun shot him a playful glance from where he stood with his back facing Wonpil, and he couldn’t help the way his eyes traced the broad length of his shoulder, of his toned arms, of where his apron hung low on his hips. 

 

“No, actually, I heard there was a hot guy working around here,” he answered on a whim but caught himself soon after, clasping his hands over his mouth like when a white lie had eluded him in front of his irate-looking mother. The input came out of nowhere, perhaps born out of a natural thought he figured must have been present for quite a time now if even with the six-year-old half sitting inside of him, he still had been able to blurt it out without a conscious filter. Younghyun swiveled around slowly with a sharp smirk pulling his lips up, coupled with a powerful stare that reflected his stark focus on Wonpil, and on him only. It was slightly unnerving, but he couldn’t deny the hotness searing beneath the collar of his shirt. 

 

“Really? And who’s that?”

 

“I-- I don’t know. My friend told me, I think. But I mean… I don’t think going to a bar is the greatest idea after all… Look at what I almost got myself into. It’s a good thing you spotted me in time…” Wonpil chuckled, an agonizing embarrassment constricting in his chest. Or maybe the bartender before him looked too incredibly tender and handsome that all the shards of Wonpil weren’t able to properly administer the whole deal, especially with a roughly sober and absolutely chaotic mind. Younghyun gave him a soft smile, that smile that seemingly wanted to differ Wonpil’s statement. 

 

“I caught it once, I’d definitely catch it twice.” 

 

“Yup. You got a point there,” he whispered, scratching the back of his neck and ignoring Younghyun’s approaching steps. “But--but maybe it’d be wise not to.” 

 

“Oh?” A simple word, the blurred lines of Younghyun, a blooming hot sensation in his stomach. 

 

“Who knows what would happen to me…” 

 

“I would.” Younghyun planted his elbows on the counter, leaning his face in Wonpil’s personal space. He freaked out internally, recoiling and fighting against the tremors in his feeble knees, but did nothing to move away. 

 

“Are you sure?” Wonpil’s voice was all but quiet, a mere breath of uncertainty but draped with a foreign sense of longing, seeking for some kind of company, a tangible, comforting touch. He had an inkling of what was to transpire next, felt normally anxious about it, held some useful information about it like it had been done before, although he had no precise memory he could properly look back on with good judgement. However, right now, all he could suitably process was how badly he wanted to kiss Younghyun under this dim lightning, over this mahogany bar, wind his hand in his hair and get even more drunk in the dizzying momentum, webbed to the throes that was Younghyun. Maybe black out until he woke up another decade later. 

 

“Yeah, I am,” Younghyun said, closed what little gap was left between them. 

 

The back of his eyeballs hurt, his mind had shut down completely and his body surrendered against Younghyun’s, stiffened limbs turning mellow and wrapping around Younghyun like thorns. Suddenly, nothing existed anymore besides the both of them. 

 

The wavering of Wonpil’s feelings between intriguing novelty and worn familiarity was overwhelming, washed through him like tidal waves of eager uncertainty and tearing him in half. He was holding on so tightly onto Younghyun that he was afraid of smothering him, continuously moving his lips against his in accordance to Younghyun’s steady hands seizing Wonpil’s chin. There was a feverish flame waning in his chest and perpetually flourishing, hot and searing wherever Younghyun’s hands went. And when he’d thought the child in him couldn’t withstand the near-shocking pleasure anymore, he found himself shutting out that possibility to benefit more of Younghyun’s distinct touches on him, forgetting about his qualms and the questions that went with them, the six-year-old him and having woken up 14 years older in just a blink of an eye. Everything was gone, replaced by Younghyun taking him by the hand ever so gently, dropped him between his own sheets where he ended up making sweet, passionate love to Wonpil; a bed, the bed he could hardly recognize a week prior as a mere child winding up existing in the same body, but with so many years that had been all but vague engraved into its history. A history young Wonpil had yet to live through. 

 

But now, everything only smelled like the cognition of home, of forever. And of Younghyun. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i guess i never mentioned it, but my twitter is @lenaasorensen, talk to me!


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